Threshold
by tiltedsyllogism
Summary: Amid the cases, John and Sherlock try to navigate some new kinds of intimacy. And/or/incidentally: five times Sherlock closed the door on John, and one time he didn't. ***** Casefic and 5 1


Looking back, those were the forty-eight hours that John would remember.

1.  
John's arse was growing numb against cold floorboards, his bad shoulder was beginning to ache, the bruising down his side made it difficult to move, and his ankle was swelling with alarming speed. In the cab, he'd fondly imagined doing a bit of patch-up on the slightly-damaged detective under his watch and then collapsing into bed for the next twelve hours. But said detective seemed to have other plans.

John slumped further back against the bathroom door, reaching over his shoulder to rap against the wood and call out to his idiot flatmate. "Are you sure you've got all the glass out?"

Sherlock made an indistinct noise, which John might have been able to interpret, were they in closer proximity. He'd certainly gained more practice interpreting Sherlock's, well, _nonverbal utterances_ lately. He grinned as his attention wandered back to the previous weekend, and the needy little gasps he had provoked by nibbling that spot below Sherlock's ear.

A moment later, a hiss of pain from the other side of the door lanced through the fog of lust, and John reminded himself sternly that, in the here and now, Sherlock needed him to be thinking like a doctor. The sex was still pretty new for them, but that was no excuse.

"Sherlock?" he said again. A moment later there came in answer the sound of ripping paper.

Well, de-glassed or not, it sounded like they were moving forward. "Okay, be sure to disinfect it thoroughly before you put the plaster on." He sighed as he felt a wave of exhaustion cascade through him. "And don't–"

"Yes, yes, I know," Sherlock snapped tartly. "Don't let the adhesive touch the wound. I _have_ done this before."

John shifted his weight, without thinking, so it all landed on the the bruise on his tailbone, and jumped up from the door with a yelp.

"And how are you managing," came Sherlock's voice, dry and arch.

"'m fine," John replied tersely. "Would you let me look at it, at least, before you wrap it up? I promise I won't try to drag you to hospital."

"No," came the response through the bathroom door.

And now this, this was a bit frustrating. It had been a tremendous relief to John to give up the pretense of not wanting what he wanted, had wanted for a long time and rather badly; and of course he was chuffed to have discovered that Sherlock agreed with him about what to do with their post-case adrenaline. And whether it was because he had no real experience with women or simply out of ignorance about how these things usually went on telly, Sherlock also seemed to agree that there was no need for awkward conversation about what was, after all, just a bit more fun added to all the rest. But some things had changed, to John's surprise and chagrin. He supposed it was a sort of a trade-off: there was a limit to how close any person could expect to get to Sherlock Holmes. This was the worst of it so far, to be prevented from the basic tasks of being a doctor, but he'd managed well enough so far, there was no point in going weak-kneed now.

"Sherlock." John pressed the heels of his palms into his thighs, hard. "Would you pl –" he bit down on the back half of that sentence just in time. His anger was shaking his judgment loose. If it were possible to calculate a phrase that would draw a worse response from Sherlock than "please be reasonable," John didn't want to know about it. Rudeness was a much safer course. He blew out a breath, hoping to breathe in composure in its place.

"Open the fucking door, you damned prick."

Apparently, Sherlock still felt entitled to ignore John when he found it convenient. John supposed he should find it comforting, that the end of a case still found them upstairs, with Sherlock in the bathroom gritting his teeth through the pain of wrapping up a sprained thumb. But John was on the wrong side of the door, this time.

He dragged himself to his feet – easing his way carefully onto his right ankle as he went – and licked his lips as he wound up for a proper tirade. (Or perhaps to beg? He wasn't above begging.)

The door jarred as the knob struck the wall, and John was jarred, too, by the suddenly unobstructed presence of his flatmate, who wordlessly lifted his right arm – thumb securely splinted and bandaged from palm to wrist – for John's inspection. His shirt was spattered with blood and filthy pond water, but rather than taking it off he had cuffed it to the elbow, too tight, so that the pale green fabric bit into the flesh of Sherlock's pale arm, squeezing a blush of pink into it.

"I believe you'll find it satisfactory, _Doctor,_ ," he said acidly, and tramped down the stairs without waiting for a reply.

John wanted to follow him, wanted to shake him by the shoulders and ask for an explanation. But even more than either of these, he realized, he wanted to brush his teeth. It had been probably two days since he had had the opportunity, and nearly a day since the falafel sandwich from the street cart, with all the raw onions. Maybe this was why Sherlock never ate while on a case.

A few minutes later, feeling even more exquisitely tired but rather more himself, John shambled downstairs and into the bedroom. Sherlock had shed his clothes in a heap and was now curled up on the far side of the bed. John stripped down to his pants and slid in behind him, wrapping his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock buried his face deeper into the pillow, even as he pushed himself closer to John. Overwhelmed with hapless affection, John rubbed his cheek against Sherlock's curls.

"Idiot," he murmured, and pressed a brief kiss to his flatmate's hair. "Just trying to keep you in one piece, you know."

Sherlock leaned his weight back into John, and said nothing.

2.  
It had been a particularly grueling case, and that final pursuit through the alleyways of Covent Garden had taken its toll on both of them. Even after a good lie-in and a quiet day at home, John was going to need another early night. It wasn't that he wasn't interested in recent trends in flu virus mutation, but it was gone ten, and the urgency of the subject was fading. After John tried, for the third time, to drain the dregs from an already empty cup of tea, he decided it was time to call it a night. He hauled himself to his feet, stretched lavishly, and turned toward the bedroom, rubbing one hand over his face. John was within striking range of the bedroom door when he came face-to-collarbone with his flatmate. Sherlock had spent the evening flitting back and forth between the kitchen and the bedroom. John hadn't been paying much attention at the time – hadn't any to spare, really, trying to get through this article – but now a flicker of suspicion pierced the dull film of exhaustion that had settled over his brain. Sherlock's eyes were as sharp as the lines of his suit jacket, tracing John's form but not meeting his gaze; his hands tucked behind his back in an ostentatiously offhand manner, and when John heard the _snick_ of the door latch, the suspicion in his mind clicked as well.

"Sherlock." John couldn't quite help the damp sigh. He was tired enough that even enunciating was difficult. "M'going to bed."

"Use your room," Sherlock replied, eyes still busy elsewhere, anywhere but John's face.

John pressed the heel of his hand into his right eye, suppressing the impulse to start stabbing with whatever object might come most readily to hand. "But we always sleep down here."

Sherlock's eyes shifted again, still avoiding John's. "Clearly not, because tonight, you'll be sleeping upstairs."

John's shoulders slumped. "You're running another experiment in there, aren't you?" He squeezed the back of his neck. It wasn't quite the same as strangling Sherlock, but it took less energy. God, he hoped another case came along soon. "Look, I don't care what you've cooked up. I'm knackered, and you can't stop me."

"I'm not trying to stop you," Sherlock replied, his voice falling into the feather-light cadences John privately called _the now-I've-got-you mulligrubber_. "You can sleep anywhere you like, as long as it's not my bedroom."

"So now it's your bedroom."

Sherlock frowned, as though John were the difficult one in this conversation. "It's always been my bedroom. You've been sleeping in it for eight weeks, or very nearly, and yet the room upstairs has remained 'your bedroom'. Therefore, it stands to reason that this one has remained mine, regardless of our sleeping arrangements on any given night." Sherlock pushed up onto his toes and loomed expectantly over John, as if he wanted a view from above of the moment when his logical tour-de-force hit home.

John sighed in defeat. "It's something really repulsive, isn't it?"

The patch of wall just over John's shoulder suddenly became very engaging. "I am merely speaking of fairness, John." His eyes narrowed. "A room each of us can retreat to –" the door latch gave another click "—as necessary." Sherlock slid sideways through the narrow crack in the doorway and pushed it shut. John felt blank. He rubbed his eyes again.

"Don't wait up," Sherlock called out, his crisp consonants muffled.

John kept staring at the door – mostly because he couldn't come up with any reason not to – until he was overtaken, quite suddenly, by a jaw-cracking yawn. Right. He grabbed the tartan blanket off the back of the couch and began shuffling up the steps to his old room. At least it still had sheets on from the previous month when Sherlock set the downstairs bedroom carpet on fire.

3.  
John fell asleep that night planning for a renewed frontal assault on the downstairs bedroom. But these schemes came to an abrupt end in the early morning hours when he caught a t-shirt to the head.

"Ten minutes, John," Sherlock sang out, already halfway back down the stairs. "We've a train to catch." John heard Sherlock pause at the bottom of the stairs. He pulled the t-shirt on, and himself out of bed, as Sherlock clattered back up. "First class; the client is paying. You'll need a nicer shirt than that."

"Bit slow in the mornings, are you?" John grumbled. He pulled the t-shirt back over his head, concealing his satisfaction at Sherlock's answering scowl.

Half an hour later they were on their way to Basingstoke, at which point Sherlock deigned to let slip that their eventual destination was the bustling metropolis of New Alresford.  
"And it _is_ actually bustling, compared to Old Alresford," said Sherlock, with that disconcerting habit of replying to things John hadn't said out loud. "Although Old Alresford is responsible for the annual Christmas panto." John wasn't sure when Sherlock had acquired the habit of collecting tidbits of local colour about the outlying towns to which the cases took them, but John had a sneaking suspicion that it was for his sake, or at least for the sake of the blog. Either that, or Sherlock was concerned that his capacity for disdain was growing dull from disuse and had taken up this line of research to make sure it got regular exercise.

"All right," John said. "So what's in New Alresford?"

"Grace Dunwoody, who is being held for the murder of her employer, Marie Grandison. Single gunshot wound to the head, ballistics match a handgun licensed to Grace Dunwoody and recently seen in her possession, now missing. Miss Dunwoody has, for the past eleven months, been looking after the Grandisons' school-age children. John Grandison, the head of this happy household, remains convinced in the teeth of all available evidence that Miss Dunwoody is innocent." Sherlock squinted briefly, as if brushing a thought to the back of his mind. "Of this crime."

"What, has she committed another one?"

"Not to my knowledge," Sherlock's mouth made a brief, sardonic twist, "but _innocent_ seems hardly the word to describe her."

"Ah." John didn't see, exactly, but he tucked it away to puzzle over later, when Sherlock's attention was elsewhere. "So who killed the wife, then?"

"Don't know," said Sherlock briskly. "But a man who exhibits less concern for the welfare of his own children – to say nothing of their dead mother – than for a young woman he has only recently come to know has, very likely, come to 'know' her rather well, don't you think."

John nodded. He did see, now. "Didn't say anything about the children, then."

"What? No." Sherlock's eyes were on his phone. "It looks like New Alresford is sending an Inspector to meet us at the train station."

John nodded, then frowned. "Half a moment. Didn't the client hire us directly?"

Sherlock only cocked an eyebrow. "Mr. Grandison appears to be a man of some influence."

"Yeah, you might say." John pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It must look pretty bad for Grace Dunwoody, if Grandison can't get the charges dropped."

Sherlock only hummed, his mind already roaming ahead. John leafed through a newspaper someone had left on the seat next to him, until he gave up and counted telephone poles out the window.

The police station at New Alresford was tiny, an ugly pebbled square that squatted like a mushroom in a patch of asphalt. John and Sherlock crossed the drizzly car park alone, having been dropped at the far end of the lot by the rather disgruntled constable who had been sent to meet them. Constable Andrews had – as he assured them, repeatedly – taken the department's best town car to meet them. Once that point had been adequately established, the conversation had moved onto Constable Andrews' theories about how his department could sharpen their techniques, under his direction. Constable Andrews quite liked explaining things, and apparently had no idea who he was reckoning with beyond some vague idea that Sherlock was a bloke who was decent at solving things. After about ten minutes of Sherlock had at last taken mercy on John's fraying patience and set the constable to rights, leaving them in prickly silence for the rest of the drive.

Inside, the station turned out to be one main room, with perhaps half a dozen offices that branched off from the central reception area. The light was a sickly yellow and seemed to take up too much air. An older man was seated at a central desk, paging through the topmost file of a small stack perched on the desk. "Mr. Holmes!" he exclaimed, rolling out his deep plummy voice for them like a carpet. "I'm told Mr. Grandison sent for you. I'm Chief Inspector Morgan. And you're timing's good, we've got an informant in my office, ready to talk to you. Just arrived a few minutes ago. Any way we can help," he concluded, his hand extended to shake Sherlock's. John took his hand and shook it as Sherlock breezed past them both. "Dr. Watson," he said, into the awkward silence. "I'm his associate."

The Chief Inspector's eyebrows rose, and he glanced back at Sherlock. "Associate? Mr. Grandison didn't…"

"He's with me," Sherlock replied crisply, as he leaned in to peer between the slats of the venetian blind hanging inside the Chief Inspector's office window.

Morgan leveled a skeptical look at John. "Associate."

John looked back steadily, stern, not quite glaring. "Colleague," he clarified. God, he hoped Morgan didn't make him get more precise. But after a moment the Chief Inspector nodded and relaxed his stance, and John followed suit.

"So who is this informant?" he asked, mostly for the sake of saying something friendly.

"Her name is Shannon Graves," Morgan said. "Friend of the suspect. We got an anonymous call from someone who overheard her in the grocery this morning, saying she was sure Grace had done it for jealousy. We asked her to come by, and since she's only just arrived we thought we'd let you have a go."

John nodded. "All right, yeah, thanks." He turned and joined Sherlock to stare through the office window. Inside, a pretty young woman of perhaps twenty-five sat forlornly in a folding chair facing the desk, twisting the end of her ponytail in her fingers.

After watching Shannon Graves for perhaps a moment more, Sherlock turned back to the Chief Inspector. "I'm going to need fifteen minutes with her. I'm not to be disturbed."

Uh-oh. John had only too clear an idea where this would be headed. He caught Sherlock by the arm as the latter moved toward the office door. "Sherlock," he said, voice low and urgent, "slow down a moment. You don't know for sure whether she's been put up to lying, or to anything, really."

"No," Sherlock agreed, eyes still fixed on Shannon. "But there's something she's not telling. It will come out once she's cried a bit."

"Sherlock!" John said, a bit louder, shaking him by the arm. Sherlock's eyes jumped to his, surprised and a bit affronted. John dropped his voice to a whispered hiss. "You can _not_ simply browbeat her because it seems more efficient! We barely know anything yet." He relaxed his grip and with it his stern expression. "We don't even know what she's said, unless you trust a bit of hearsay."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. Retrieve the file, will you? We can look over the transcript of her initial interview."

"Yes. Good. All right." John resisted the urge to slide his hand down Sherlock's arm and take Sherlock's hand in his own – they were not so public in their gestures, yet – but simply gave his elbow a light squeeze before letting go. He turned back to the Chief Inspector and smiled, conciliatory, smoothing over. "Sorry for the confusion," he said. "We have plenty of experience dealing with police files, they won't be taken out of—"

John whirled at the sound of a decisive click behind him. Sherlock had disappeared into the office and was now bearing down on Shannon Graves.

"Shit," John said, and tore back across the room to yank at the handle. "He's locked it," he said, turning back to Morgan. "Where are the keys?"

Morgan, who though visibly disconcerted had remained admirably calm, slapped his pocket instinctively and apparently came up dry. "They'll be on the counter, just by the door," he said. John felt it in his throat in the split-second before he looked, that sinking certainty that the keys would be gone. John banged on the door, twice, and saw Shannon's shoulders twitch at the sound, but Sherlock gave no sign of having heard. John chewed his cheek in frustration and looked helplessly into the locked office. The double-thick windows kept the sound pretty well in; only the dim cadences of Sherlock's shouting thudded against them.

A moment later, he felt Morgan at his shoulder, silent, watching Shannon Graves sob into her hand while Sherlock paced, mouthing invisible words. "It'll be all right," he said, softly, and hoped it sounded as though he meant it.

4.  
Shannon Graves was all right in the end – she did in fact seem restored by her cry when she emerged from Morgan's office eleven agonizing minutes later – and it was Sherlock who seemed rather the worse for wear. He was frustrated, John could clearly tell, by the discovery that Shannon's conviction had been founded on her own very dodgy interpretation of a remark by a mutual friend who had expressed concern that Grace had fallen in love with her employer; it obviously rankled all the more that he had sacrificed the goodwill of the New Alresford constabulary in order to hear so slight a confession directly from the source. John, for his part, was too angry to say "told you so" out loud – he simply sat there and thought it, and let his seething flatmate make of it what he would.

"There" was the back of the town car. After extended logistical negotiations, Sherlock had eventually consented ("agreed" would be too strong) to ride with Constable Andrews out to the crime scene, a bridge over the Itchen that was apparently some sort of national heritage site. The bridge in question was some way down the river, well beyond the ordinary circuit of either of New Alresford's two cabs; and, as Andrews clarified jovially, "neither Marshall nor Wallace'd be a sight too keen on waiting till you're done 'observing'."

Constable Andrews' good humor appeared to have been restored by regaining the upper hand over the upstart consultant who had impugned his own investigative faculties. He now had Chief Inspector Morgan in the seat beside him – still reeling, and disinclined to let Sherlock out of his sight while he remained within Morgan's jurisdiction – and the disgraced-but-still-newsworthy consulting detective in the back, along with said consultant's long-suffering colleague. The ambient ire in the car did not interfere with the constable's delight at the opportunity to hold forth before so distinguished an audience.

John was staring out the window, thinking wistfully of the quieter afternoons in Afghanistan, when he felt a brush against his knuckles. He turned to find Sherlock staring out into the green fields, his whole body turned toward the window that reflected back an impassive face. But John looked down at his hand where it lay on the bench seat between them, and felt his knuckles tingle. He was still angry, but he found himself breathing a bit easier, all the same.

"All right?" he murmured, deep and quiet, under the steady tide of Andrews' exposition. Sherlock did not move, and said nothing. But the tyres were loud on the road, and of course there was Andrews, so perhaps he hadn't heard. John balled up his hand and swiped his thumb over his knuckles to feel them tingle again, and promptly felt ridiculous.

They reached the scene a few minutes later, the yellow tape cutting a bright line through the misty afternoon that drew John's eye even before he caught sight of the bridge itself. Sherlock was out of the car before it had quite stopped moving, bounding over to the arch of grey stone. John followed more slowly, taking in the small but sturdy curve of stone and the shining streak of water that flowed merrily in its channel of cut turf, no more than two feet wide.

"River's shrunk in the past two hundred years," Andrews said, coming to stand next to him. "Used to be bigger, back when they built this bridge." He paused ripely, and John braced himself for a mediocre pun. "Didn't fancy getting their feet wet!" the man chortled, obviously hugely pleased with his touch of wit.

John gave Andrews a tight smile and legged it over to the bridge. Being eviscerated for his stupidity by Sherlock would, he figured, be better for his IQ and for his outlook on the future prospects of the human race than would continuing to listen to the Constable. "Anything I can do?" he called.

Sherlock glanced up briefly at his approach. He was bent over the parapet, studying one of the rough-cut stones at the upper end of the ledge, and John joined him as he drew near. It took him a minute to find, but he eventually spotted a raw facet on the side of the stone, its sharp edges out of place among the soft creases of weather-worn rock.

"Any theories?" Sherlock asked in a low murmur. John shivered; he had come to associate that tone of voice with something entirely more private. But even in bed, John thought of it as Sherlock's "crime scene" voice. Truth be told, that was probably part of why it went straight to his pants. He ruthlessly cut off that train of thought, reminding himself that they were, for the moment, at an actual crime scene. He dug his nails into his palms and used the pinch of pain to focus, and squatted down to put the marked stone at eye level.

"It would have taken a lot of force, to do this kind of damage," he said, running his fingers along the crisp edge. "Perhaps something quite heavy. Or else moving very fast."

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Yes, thank you John, but _which_. Or perhaps," he continued slowly, "the better question is _what_." He stood up quickly.

"Inspector," he called out. "Where was the body when it was found?"

Morgan trotted over, guarded but apparently still inclined to be helpful, now that Sherlock was not shouting at witnesses or giving off signs that he might start doing so. John wondered, briefly, why it was that any Chief Inspector, even in a sleepy town like New Alresford, would be running errands for a case that was officially all but closed. He tucked that thought away to ask Sherlock later on, listening instead while Morgan described how Marie Grandison's body had been found. Sherlock listened intently, then turned to walk the length of the bridge twice, eyes on the stones beneath his feet.

At last, he looked up, again searching out the Chief Inspector. "Where was her arm?" he asked. Somewhere behind John, Andrews suppressed a guffaw, and, much as he disliked the man, John did have to give him that one. Morgan also looked blank for a moment and then recovered himself. "The left was down by her side," he replied, "palm down. And the right was splayed out to the side."

Sherlock nodded, nearly polite in his distraction. "But holding _what_ ," he said to himself, tipping his head for emphasis. John waited while Sherlock dropped to his knees and began feeling along the surface of the stones, turning himself round and laying his hands this way and that. After a few minutes, he exclaimed something in a voice so low John couldn't make it out.

"Sorry, what?" John asked, closing the distance between them. Sherlock, his back to John, said nothing, but cocked his head as though listening. John walked round to his other side. Sherlock was muttering inaudibly and chewing on his lip. John watched him a moment longer, watching his head tip in expressive jerks and watching his lips trace out silent words, then sighed and pursed his lips. Right.

Both Morgan and Andrews had been watching Sherlock, but now both turned to him in evident confusion as he beckoned to them and started walking back toward the road. "He's gone to his mind palace," John called back over his shoulder.

"His _mind palace_ ," said Andrews incredulously, and oh, that was predictable, John didn't need Sherlock to point that out.

"It's… this thing he does," he offered, by way of explanation, because after all, it was a bit weird, wasn't it? "When he's found some sort of puzzle he needs to sort out. Run it through the, uh, database in his head. He'll. Well. He needs some privacy to think things through on his own. May as well wait where it's dry, he could be an hour."

Morgan snorted irritably, but began walking back toward the car. "Any chance he'll let us in on what he discovers?"

John had reached the car and stood by the back door, shoved his hands in his pockets. "Might do, sooner or later."

The Chief Inspector caught up a minute or two later, and gave him a wry smile over the roof of the car as he unlocked the doors. "Does he ever tell you what he's thinking?"

John huffed a laugh, wasn't able to catch the smile as it flitted away. "Sometimes. I just…" he pursed his lips, worked his mouth as he pulled the thought into a different shape . "It's hard to know, really."

5.  
When Sherlock joined them in the car half an hour later, his skin pallid with cold, John had to suppress the urge to fuss. Sherlock himself, however, as John could tell at a glance, was all business. He clearly had some kind of theory brewing, but he just as clearly wasn't ready to talk about it just yet. Instead, he offered the two officers a disconcertingly broad smile as he settled himself in the back seat. He had some theories, he explained to the two men, but wanted to review the case file first. Of course he wouldn't hear of going back to the police station at this hour, it could all wait until tomorrow. He could probably do with a good night's sleep to clear his head would the officers be so kind as to drop them off at the local inn?

The Normal Person routine, then. John privately doubted that they were fooled, but he supposed they might have been playing along out of sheer relief that their consultant was neither shouting at witnesses nor banishing them from the premises of their own crime scene. He wondered what investigations Sherlock was planning for the evening ahead.

The policemen dropped them off at the Horse & Groom, which Andrews assured them had the biggest selection of stouts on tap as well as the best steaks. John was so relieved about being done with Andrews for the day that he thanked the man more effusively than was warranted by what he privately thought would turn out to be quite useless information. But Sherlock surprised him again, barely pausing long enough to drop his laptop and overnight bag in the room before heading back out the door. "Time for a pint, John," he called.

John hurried after him, and caught his elbow on the wide landing halfway down the stairs that separated the rooms from the pub's main hall. Sherlock froze, and John hastily withdrew his hand. They had touched like this before, all the time, and it had never seemed to bother Sherlock, but maybe it seemed to intimate for a public place, now. John ruthlessly squashed the part of him that was bothered. "Catch me up a bit," John said. "What are we after?"

"We need to know about the gun," Sherlock said, eyes unfocused as his attention turned inward. "Was it a gift. Did she buy it. _When_ did she buy it. Why did she keep it. Where did she keep it." His eyes returned to John's. "It may be our murder weapon, but I'm nearly certain that Grace Dunwoody wasn't the one who fired it."

"All right, but what's that got to do with us having a pint? You don't even _like_ beer, other than that strange Polish stuff."

"Yes, the pint-drinking will fall to you, while I ascertain the name and the whereabouts of Grace Dunwoody's friend," – and here Sherlock's voice became, if possible, even drier – "the one who _actually_ knows her. This is a quiet town, not many crimes of note, and Grace is still a newcomer, after all. I don't think we'll have much trouble in getting people to talk."

The crowd in the pub didn't look especially promising – almost entirely couples, and most of them probably vacationers, sitting together at two-person tables – so John chose another free table while Sherlock went to the bar, and entertained himself trying to deduce something about the older couple the next table over. They were clearly from out of town, probably farther north. Keeping warm seemed to be a priority, they were both bundled up far more than necessary for a bit of wet. John was chortling to himself about the man's ridiculous jumper when Sherlock returned to the table, bearing a drink in each hand and a smug expression that promised good news. John took an appreciative sip of his beer, and tried not be surprised at the sight of Sherlock drinking with a case in progress.

"Our bartender," Sherlock said, sliding into his seat, "spends his evenings off across town, at a public house called the Cricketers, where the steak is, so the gentleman assures us, significantly better than the one here."

"Imagine Andrews getting something wrong," John put in, deadpan, while Sherlock sneaked a quick nip of his scotch.

"The Cricketers, as is happens, is the public house of choice of Emily Morton, a local girl who went to London for university some years ago. Apparently sent down, but that's none of our concern. More to the point is that Emily is something of a problem solver, and so when she learned of the Grandisons' need to replace their former governess, she put them in touch with an old school chum, a recently-divorced friend looking for a change of scene."

"Grace Dunwoody."

Sherlock tipped his glass slightly toward John, as if toasting him, and smiled slightly. "Exactly."

John smiled and shook his head. "Bartender told you all of that, did he?"

Sherlock made a thoughtful face. "Mmm, more or less. I may have inferred some things." He studied the liquor in his glass and swirled it thoughtfully. "Emily Morton may be able to tell us more than Grace herself."

"If we handle her carefully," said John mildly.

Sherlock cracked a smile, eyes still on his glass. "Are you volunteering, Captain?"

John pulled at his beer. "If it's a general fishing expedition, not just about the gun – I can warm her up a bit, yeah, find out what she knows."

Sherlock's face went very still. "Quite. It's the best course of action all around. We don't know how quickly gossip travels here; Shannon may already have contacted her about this afternoon. I'd best keep a low profile." He looked back up at John, face businesslike, eyes blank, and then tipped his head to pour back the rest of his scotch. "Now let's go," he said, already out of his chair.

John spared a wistful glance for the remaining half of his beer, since that was all he had to give to it. "We're getting you some chips at the Cricketers to soak up that Scotch," he said, as he hurried to catch up.

The rain had picked up considerably, and both of New Alresford's cabs were circling the town square. Sherlock managed to flag one of them down, of course, and so they arrived mostly dry at the Cricketers, which was a freestanding building tucked in its own close at the south edge of the village. Inside it was airless and crowded, unpleasantly humid, the floor tracked all over with dirty water that patrons had brought in with them from the outside. Sherlock plucked at the sleeve of an older man who stood near the door doing up his coat, and began some yarn about picking up some sort of package from a friend of a friend; the place was a sinkhole for sound, and John wasn't close enough to hear, but he did see the man point, and followed his gesture to a booth in the corner.

John fell in without waiting for a signal from Sherlock, sidling over to the booth, hands in his pockets. He saw, as he drew nearer, that the three young women sitting there seemed a bit at loose ends; so much the better for him and Sherlock. He stopped in front of their table and offered a tentative smile when they looked at him. The pretty ginger on the left-hand side had a challenging look on her face, and John hoped that she wasn't Emily.

"I reckon I've been stood up. Could I join you ladies instead? I did drive all the way here, I may well make it a nice evening."

The ginger and the black-haired girl across from her (great gobs of mascara and eyeliner, John wondered what Sherlock would make of it) both glanced quickly at their friend, tucked in the back left, and then Mascara smiled and scooted over to make room for him on the bench seat beside her. "Yeah, all right," she said. "Buy us a round?"

"Happy to do it," John replied, taking the proffered seat. "I'm John."

"Gemma," said Mascara, next to him. "And these nasty characters are Meredith and Emily." Meredith, the ginger, was now smiling brightly, and she reached across the table to shake his hand. Emily, mousy beside her, gave a small nod, as though much more were beyond her. "Hello," she said quietly. Her face reminded John of a less pretty version of Molly Hooper, and John felt a welling of sympathy. The other two, John realized, were clearly on a mission to cheer her up, or perhaps to distract her. He felt his strategy click into place beneath the conscious layer of his brain. A bit delicate, at first, but he couldn't have asked for better.

He smiled at Emily warmly, holding eye contact. "What'll it be, then?" he asked. "You look like you could use a pint of whatever you like best."

She returned his smile weakly. "Ringwood boondoggle," she said, "if you don't mind something light."

"Sounds great to me," he returned. "This isn't my local, I'm trusting you to know what's good. I'll be back in a tick." He risked a wink at her as he stood, and from Meredith's playful gasp behind him, he knew he had played it right.

As he carried the pitcher back to the booth, John noticed that Sherlock had settled in at a table a few feet away from theirs, on the edge of John's line of sight. He still wore his Belstaff, but was nonetheless almost unrecognizable, slouched in an ungainly way that telegraphed resentment, as well as a willingness to explain his grievances at length to anyone within earshot. John suppressed a grin as he realized that a bit of Constable Andrews had gone into the blend of this persona, and let his eyes glide as if unseeing over his new neighbor and back to his tablemates.

"Here we are, then," he said, setting down the pitcher. "Brought you a fresh glass," he said to Emily, pouring for her.

"Oh," she said, caught between pleased and chagrined, gesturing toward the glass that stood about a third full of something red and clear. "I've still got –"

He heard Sherlock in his head, diagnosing, assessing; she was anxious and uncertain, already afraid of disappointing him. Time to lay on what Sherlock called "strong-jawed charm". John smiled back at her, warm and just a bit cocky. "How about we make a swap, then," he replied, taking her glass.

"You're forward, aren't you," said Meredith.

"I've been told," he said, still cheeky, but then gave her a sheepish smile. This was the strong personality, he was realizing, and she had set herself to protecting Emily; he wasn't going to get anywhere useful without Meredith.

"So where are you from, John?" asked Gemma.

"I'm in from London for the week," John answered, and Christ, he hoped he could come up with some sort of reason before they thought to ask. "Alresford seems like a lovely place," he said, plowing ahead. "Although from what I've seen in the local paper, it's been a bit of a rough time, yeah?"

The two friends went silent, taut, while in her corner, Emily's face crumpled. "Oh God," John exclaimed, "I've put my foot right in it, haven't I. I'm so sorry. Really." He turned a wide, worried gaze on Meredith, who had an arm around Emily but her face toward John, already forgiving.

"It's all right, you couldn't have known," she said to him, as she squeezed Emily's shoulders. She hesitated, and John thought _yes, yes please_ , She glanced at her friend, and then spoke quickly. "Em's friend has gotten mixed up in all of it somehow, but it's a ridiculous mistake, it's just impossible."

"Oh my god," said John. "So the girl they have in prison – that's your friend?"

Emily nodded miserably. "Grace. She's the sweetest person. It's my fault she's even here."

"Now just a moment," John said, struck suddenly by a plan so enormously clever he felt stupid for not having thought of it sooner. "Why don't you tell me how Grace got involved? I'm a barrister, perhaps I can help you sort it out."

Meredith's face lit up, and she reached out and seized John's hand where it lay on the table. "Oh my God, Em," she said, turning toward her friend. Her voice dropped away as she mouthed something urgently to her friend. John deliberately dropped his gaze.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock shove back from his table and stalk across the pub toward the door. Several heads turned in his wake; he wasn't even trying to keep a low profile. John was on his feet the next moment, pulling his jacket back on. The three women stared at him.

"Sorry, I –" he said lamely, his inspiration apparently exhausted by the barrister story. "Sorry," he said again, as he took off after Sherlock. He wasn't much cop as a lip-reader, but Sherlock was, of course, and unlike John he didn't have to pretend to be looking elsewhere. John wondered what it was that Meredith had said, that it was worth leaving straightaway. Perhaps it had been a text, he thought, as he pushed through the pub door and caught sight of the familiar curly black head. Sherlock had just opened the door of a cab that he had, of course, managed to conjure from somewhere.

"Hey," John said, breathless, as he reached Sherlock. "Have we got what we need?"

Sherlock turned toward him, his entire aspect blaring angry heat, face twisted in a way that John couldn't read. "I should think you're the better judge of that."

John felt as though he'd gone to the loo at the cinema and walked back into the wrong theater. He started back, and then lifted a hand, whether in self-defense or to touch Sherlock he wasn't sure. "Wait a minute, what the hell…."

Sherlock drew himself up, a pungent, vicious sparkle in his eyes. "Or perhaps you need a bit more of whatever it is you're after. Don't let me keep you."

"Sherlock." John was fast losing patience with this argument – which was as far as he could work out about absolutely nothing – and the rain was beginning to soak through to his scalp. "Can we at least finish this argument in the cab?"

"This," Sherlock said, "is my cab." And punctuated the point by pulling the door shut behind him.

John only wasted a few seconds standing in the rain and cursing his flatmate. After that, he remembered – as he often did – that he could walk back to the inn and curse Sherlock at the same time. At least it wasn't terribly cold. John turned up his collar and set himself toward home.

+1.  
John had it pretty well worked out by the time he had reached the main avenue that would bring him back to the Horse & Groom, although he was still unclear on some of the finer points. He still had half a mind to yell at Sherlock for making him walk through the rain like bloody John Cusack, although that had faded, the way it always did when it was Sherlock he was angry at. Damn the man, he always managed to worm his way under the radar of John's righteous indignation. Even as he let himself in through the lodgers' entrance at the inn, he found himself unable to disentangle the mesh of confusion, concern, and helpless frustration that was squeezing all the air out of his lungs as he squelched his way up the stairs in his wet shoes.

He already had his key in his hand when the door to their room opened. Sherlock stood there, without his coat but otherwise still fully dressed, his face a painfully childlike blank. He stared at John for several seconds before recollecting himself and stepping back to let John through.

"You made it back," he said uncertainly, as John toed out of his shoes and peeled off his sodden jacket.

"Yes, no thanks to you."

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes, while John continued the business of extracting himself from his wet things. Then he retreated into the bathroom, reappearing at John's side a moment later.

"Do you need a towel. For your hair."

John stood up and met his eyes again. Still that same face, one he couldn't put a name to; it reminded him, just a bit, of the face Sherlock had made after kissing him for the first time. John took the towel.

"It was just an act, you know," he said, rubbing the towel over his head. "Playing a part. You do it all the time."

Sherlock looked away, scowling. "I know."

He tossed the damp towel to the floor next to the wardrobe, where Sherlock had already heaped the decorative bedding and extra pillows. "I'm not sure I can get back in with them, Sherlock, even if they don't connect me with you, they still…."

"I know," snapped Sherlock. He pushed a hand through his hair fretfully, shaking a bit of water to the floor as he did so. "I am aware," he said, his tone more composed.

John was now down to his pants, which were dry, so he decided they could stay. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "So where are we, then? Have we blown the case?"

Sherlock smiled wanly. "We? Certainly not."

John sighed. He was at a loss, and Sherlock was being cagey again. "Well. Explain it to me in the morning, all right?" He leaned across the bed and pulled back the covers, but then paused; perhaps a shower would warm him up better than crawling straight in. But the next moment it was a moot point, because Sherlock was sitting in front of him, hand over his.

"John," he said simply. His mouth drooped, and after a moment he said it again: "John."

John waited.

They sat another moment, Sherlock's mouth working silently, and then Sherlock reached out and drew John's head to his and kissed him, hard. It went on a moment too long to be quite comfortable, and even then Sherlock did not release him, but drew John's forehead down to his own shoulder, while he buried his face in John's neck. Still unsure, John reached his hand to Sherlock's waist and let it rest there, just above his hip.

"I can't do it, John," Sherlock said at last, his lips like moth wings against the skin of John's shoulder. John felt all the anger of the past day turn into icy vapour in his chest, even as a frantic voice inside said _it can't be that, it can't be that, he couldn't kiss you like that if it were_. Sherlock turned his head to the side, speaking into the hollow under John's chin, while his thumb continued to stroke across the pulse point in John's neck. "I don't know how."

This was still confusing, but a bit better. Cautiously, John reached down and lifted Sherlock's chin until their eyes met. Again, Sherlock's face was unguarded, terrifyingly open, and John felt like all of the words had been knocked out of him. "What's that?" he finally got out, keeping his tone carefully casual. "Can't manage to go more than two hours without being rude to me?"

Sherlock made a face and looked away again, but dropped his cheek into John's hand. "It won't – it isn't sustainable. I can go without sleep, for the most part, and hunger I don't even notice anymore. It should be possible" – and here his thumb dug briefly into John's neck – "to shut you out. To put you out of my mind, focus on the work." He nuzzled into John's hand and touched his lips to John's palm as he straightened. "But I can't."

John's throat felt thick. "Sherlock, I –"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, for pity's sake, _don't_. It is not sweet, it's ridiculous." And then, more quietly: "It could get us both killed, someday."

John considered. "Might do. But this," he said, rubbing his thumb a bit, where he held Sherlock at the waist, "this is all I want, until then."

Sherlock looked back, his face open like a green field after rain. John could not help reaching out and touching his cheek. He was going to have to find the language for that tone of voice, that face. Or maybe invent it. He reached out for Sherlock's hand and found it balled up in a fist, clenching at the coverlet on the bed. Carefully, gently, John stroked his hand over Sherlock's fingers, his whole hand all the way to the wrist; and slowly, Sherlock let go of the coverlet and took John's hand in his.


End file.
